


Counting Bodies Like Sheep

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [9]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur-centric, BAMF Arthur, Bottom Eames, Established Relationship, M/M, Possessive Arthur, Post-Inception, Protective Arthur, Top Arthur, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur demonstrates the consequences of messing with Eames, aka The Heinrich Incident.</p><p>"There are hundreds of ways to get away with murder. Arthur knows them all."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Precious

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, I offer the Heinrich Incident in all its BAMFy glory. This story is set during the same week as "The Wise Man Knows" and leads up to the events of "Sometimes He'll Twitch for No Reason".

There are hundreds of ways to get away with murder. Arthur knows them all.

These are the thoughts that course through Arthur’s mind as he takes in the sight of his lover—split lip, darkening splotches of bruised skin all over Eames’s face, shoulders, and ribs. His knuckles are torn up, and there’s a line of fresh blood trailing down the damp skin of his back. Arthur catalogues the damage in a split second and wonders who he needs to kill.

“Tell me you haven’t been cage fighting again,” he drawls, announcing his presence.

Eames is in the bathroom—naked and obviously fresh from a shower—of the new safe house Arthur decided to set up in Geneva. The amount of work he does in the region has been calling for something closer than Paris or Naples, so the two of them set aside a couple of weeks to purchase the small townhouse and kit it out. So far, they’ve only gotten as far as utilities and basic furniture. Blood and bruises aside, Arthur has to admit that a naked Eames goes a long way towards making the place feel more homey.

Eames straightens up from the mirror where he’s been trying to look at the back of his own head. “One time!” he cries out, indignantly. “And I needed the money.”

“You have millions of dollars squirreled away in over twenty different countries. You never need the money.”

Eames waggles his brows playfully, but Arthur notices he’s careful to grin out of only one side of his mouth. “You would know, wouldn’t you? My own little squirrel, you are. You know, it’s just now occurring to me to ask—do you provide personal banking service to everyone you work with, or was it just because you’ve been hot for my bod all this time?” He demonstrates said body by running a hand down his bare stomach.

Arthur dutifully looks. It would be rude not to appreciate the display Eames is working so hard to provide. But he’s always been skilled at multitasking. “And stop deflecting.”

Predictably, Eames tries to brush off his injured state. “I’m fine. Just need to get this cleaned up.” He gestures to the blood that has dripped down his back and now freckles the linoleum floor.

“Let me see.” Arthur fully enters the bathroom and turns Eames around. There’s a small gash on the back of Eames’s neck. Broken glass, he guesses. Arthur grabs up the gauze and antiseptic Eames has out on the counter and starts cleaning the wound. “You going to tell me what happened?”

“Let’s just say, we’re going to need a different supplier.”

Arthur nods thoughtfully. “That’s fine. There’s plenty of arms dealers in the country, and I’m not in a hurry. But I thought you and this guy were  _mates_ or something.”

“Is that a sneer in your tone?” Eames tries to peer over his shoulder.

“You’re hearing things. Must be the blood in your ears.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real comedi—oh. Right. Could you…”

“Tilt your head a bit… there.”

“Ta, love. Anyway, can’t blame the fellow, I suppose. Seems he’s quite bitter over that prison stint we did in Thailand.”

“Some people get touchy about incarceration,” Arthur snarks, placing a couple of butterfly bandages over the cut.

“I know, right? Anyway, ol’ Heinrich figures I was the one to rat him out, seeing as how I was only held for a few weeks while he was there for a year.”

“He must not know about your wily ways.” Arthur finishes up by taping a square of gauze over Eames’s neck, securing it with a gentle pat.

Eames reaches back to grasp Arthur’s hand and plants a kiss on the inside of his wrist. “I reserve my wiles for you, my darling.”

“I consider myself blessed.”

“As you should. In fact—” he pulls Arthur’s arms around his waist, pressing his ass back into Arthur’s crotch. “Seeing as how I’m already naked, why don’t we bless you a little more.”

“You’ll bleed on me.” But Arthur tightens his hold and does some grinding of his own.

“You like it when I bleed on you.”

“True enough.”

“Come on, love.” Eames catches his gaze in the bathroom mirror. “I’m hurt. I need comforting.” He gives Arthur a very credible pout. It’s a blatant attempt at manipulation, but, fuck… Eames looks up at him through his lashes, eyes soft and hot with desire. How can Arthur refuse?

“You want me to take care of you, then?” He croons, letting his voice drop to its lowest register and basking in the way Eames’s breath stutters.

“I do. I very much do.”

“Want me to make you feel better? Make you feel good?” Sexy talk is more of Eames’s thing, but Arthur can’t deny the charge he gets from seducing with words instead of touch. It heats his blood, making his dick twitch in his pants. He pivots them around, nudges Eames through the door and into the bedroom, steering him towards the bed by the hold on his hips.

“Mm.” Eames settles onto the bed, face-down, naked ass arching just a bit. “Please.”

“Shh.” Arthur crawls onto the bed behind Eames, hovering on all fours above him, mindful of the bruises that are surely aching by now. He leans forward to talk low and gentle into Eames’s ear. “It’s not time to beg, yet.”

Eames’s inhales sharply. He pushes up with his hips, rubbing against Arthur’s growing erection. “If I don’t beg, how will you know what I need?”

“Simple.” Arthur sits up, palming the soft globes of Eames’s ass. His thumbs dip inward, rubbing against Eames’s hole. “You need what I give you. Everything.” He places one thumb directly on the tight entrance and presses. Not entering. Just applying pressure. “ _Anything_ I give you. My hands. My mouth. My cock. Pushing inside you until you can’t take any more.”

Eames squirms, trying to force Arthur to go deeper, but Arthur rides the movements of Eames’s hips without giving in. He leans down, drags his tongue up Eames’s spine. Places a gentle kiss on the bandaged cut on Eames’s neck. Nibbles on the edge of one ear when Eames finally settles down. “Am I right? Is that what you need?”

“Yes.” It’s more of a moan that a word.

“Do you need me to give it to you?” He punctuates the question by circling his thumb around Eames’s clenching hole.

“Arthur! Yes.” Eames shivers beneath him. “ _Yes_.”

Arthur feels his heart pounding, a furious need to possess—to dominate—driving all other thoughts from his head. “All of it?”

Eames squeezes his eyes shut, trying to contain the urge to plead and demand. He nods, pressing his face into the bedspread. “Everything.”

“Good boy,” Arthur whispers. He pulls back, getting to his feet beside the bed. “Don’t move,” he commands when Eames starts to roll over, and murmurs his approval when Eames twitches but lays still. He undresses quickly, eyes fixed on the lush body laid out before him. Grabbing the lube from where it usually resides—under his pillow next to his secondary Glock—he climbs back onto the bed beside Eames.

He nudges Eames’s legs further apart and drizzles lube down the crease of Eames’s ass, biting one cheek when Eames complains about the cold. Rubs his thumb back and forth over Eames’s hole, working the lube around. He slips the first finger in, gentle but insistent. Relishes the tight grip and thinks about the way it feels when he squeezes his cock in, deliciously resistant even after months of near constant fucking.

He adds another finger, causing Eames to moan and grip the blanket, hips wiggling, driving his dick into the mattress. Arthur can see Eames’s balls tighten as the pleasure builds. He twists his wrist around, fucking his fingers into Eames in a slow and steady rhythm until Eames is whining around a mouthful of blankets.

He swings a leg over, straddling Eames again. Fits his cock into the slick crevice and glides it back and forth until he’s wet and shiny with lube. Then, with a firm grip on Eames’s ass, he slowly pushes in. Eames whimpers but lays passive, letting himself be taken. And Arthur praises him, tells Eames how perfect he is, because that’s exactly what Arthur needs just now. What they both need.

He begins to thrust, leaning forward with arms braced on either side of Eames’s torso, dragging in and out of that hot grip with the single-minded focus of getting himself off, fast and hard. Eames tries to push back into Arthur’s driving hips, but he doesn’t have enough leverage to do more than rock up and down. Arthur knows every movement rubs Eames’s cock against the bed, stimulating him on both sides. Knows Eames could come, just like this. Eventually. If Arthur lets him.

He snaps his hips forward, grazing Eames’s prostate judging by the way Eames cries out and clenches tighter. “Arthur! Please.”

“Still not time, yet.” Arthur speeds up his thrusts. He switches to short, deep motions that concentrate the friction on the head of his cock, escalating the sensation to sharp bites of pleasure that make his head fall back on his shoulders. He feels the pressure gathering at the base of his spine and pushes, pushes, pushes until it breaks.

He comes on a deep groan, pulsing deep into Eames’s body until his balls feel wrung out. He withdraws from that sweet clasp, ignoring the way Eames moans in frustration. He moves back to lie between Eames’s legs, spreads him wide so he can get a good look at Eames’s opened hole, flushed and wet with his come. Head spinning, Arthur dives in, wrapping his mouth around Eames’s asshole and rubbing the flat of his tongue against it.

Eames gasps, thigh muscles tensing spasmodically. He pushes back against Arthur’s tongue, moaning feverishly when the slender muscle slips in and licks around. Arthur growls into the slick flesh, fucking his tongue as far into Eames as possible, savoring their combined flavor—the evidence of his possession. Fingers digging into Eames’s ass, leaving the skin streaked by the red imprints of his hands, he wants to climb inside this man every way he can, become a permanent part of him.

Eames wails, frantic to come. “Please, Arthur! Please! Fuck, _please_ , I need it. Need it. You hafta—god, _please_.”

Arthur drags Eames onto his back, forgetting to be careful of his bruises, and fits his mouth over Eames’s leaking cock. It only takes one strong suck before Eames’s come explodes onto his tongue, fingers knotted in Arthur’s hair in the effort to pull him further onto his cock. Eames shudders, twitches, pants as he empties himself into Arthur’s eager mouth.

Finally Eames releases his desperate grip and strokes his hands down Arthur’s neck, signaling that the stimulation has become too much. Arthur crawls up the bed, lies on his back and pulls Eames down to rest on top of him. Eames tilts his face up, and they share their first kiss since Arthur came home—slow, deep, and unhurried.

Arthur’s heart continues to thunder in chest, owing not just to their recent exertions but also to the clawing need that still consumes him. That urge to tell Eames how much he means to him. But the fear is stronger. The fear that this could all go wrong and leave him shredded. The longer this relationship goes on, the more deeply they become entwined in each other’s lives, the less sure-footed Arthur becomes.

He trails his fingers across a tattooed shoulder, noting the way bruises play in and out of the inked pattern, and thinks about the future.


	2. Truth and Choice

A week later, their business in Geneva is concluded. The safe house is fit for habitation, stuffed to the eaves with hidden weaponry, and buttoned up with a security system of Arthur’s own devising. Arthur thinks back on their time spent there and has to work to not giggle like a preteen. It’s all been very… domestic. Setting up house with Eames, arguing over couches and shopping for surveillance cameras. He liked the feeling—maybe more than he should—and wonders how long he should wait before casually mentioning his lack of a safe house in Southeast Asia.

They celebrate their last day with a robust lunch—Arthur makes his mother’s chicken and dumplings recipe—after which Eames points out that they haven’t christened the couch yet. Then he produces an actual, handwritten checklist that—yep, includes _christen new couch with brilliant sexy times_ as a to-do item, right between _piggyback neighbour’s satellite tv_ and _buy reflective window film._

Arthur has a deep respect for checklists.

They come together, slow and lazy, bodies joining in a way that speaks of their growing knowledge of each other. The usual, headrush-inducing fever Arthur associates with their lovemaking is momentarily put aside in favor of languid touches and hushed endearments. Arthur has never _smiled_ so much during sex before. Didn’t know that was really even a thing that existed outside of bad porn and music videos. He likes it.

The sun is low in the sky by the time Arthur musters enough conviction to get up and sort through their scattering clothing.

“Come on,” he nags, dropping Eames’s jeans into his lap. “We need to head out or we’ll miss our flights.” It would probably be more convincing if he could keep the stupid grin off his face.

Eames just stretches indolently, toes wiggling. “And a shame that would be.” He sinks back into the cushions like a sultan in a gilded harem, looking on with lascivious contentment as Arthur tucks himself into his pants.

“You’re the one who wanted to go to France,” Arthur reminds him, buttoning up his shirt and ignoring the wayward foot brushing along his inseam.

Eames bats his eyes and affects a moue of dissatisfaction. “Yes, well, if you’re going to abandon me, I might as well enjoy myself frolicking on the beach. I find that holding a fussy drink in my hand serves to accentuate my manliness.”

“You can still come with me.”

Eames demonstrates what he thinks of that idea with a rude gesture. But he does sit up, finally, if only to grab Arthur by the hips and nuzzle into his belly. “Thank you, no. But do give Cobb my regards, won’t you? Tell him I hope he’s settling into sanity nicely.”

And Arthur knows he shouldn’t encourage, but he finds his hand carding through Eames’s hair without even meaning to. “I’ll tell him you say _hi_ ,” Arthur responds in a dry tone.

“Spoilsport.”

“Reprobate.”

“Mm, I love it when you talk dirty,” Eames purrs, inching his fingers under Arthur’s shirt.

 

 

 

The passengers of flight LX528 for Nice are already lining up to board by the time they make it to the gate.

“Well, this is me.” Eames sets down his duffel and digs around in his pockets for his boarding pass.

Arthur pulls it from his own pocket and hands it over while eying the announcement boards. It’s his compulsion to verify details, track changes—but he also wants to make sure that Eames’s flight is departing on schedule. He checks his watch. “And with three minutes to spare.”

“I told you we were on time.”

“We seem to have different definitions for that.” Arthur clears his throat, resettling the strap of his bag on his shoulder. The uncertainty needles at him. It’s a hateful feeling, shoving him back into the psyche of his sixteen-year old self—needy and resentful.

And Eames, damn him, has some kind of sixth sense for when Arthur is feeling vulnerable. “What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” he trails off, rendered mute by his own idiocy, but Eames smiles like Arthur just handed him a treat.

“Just that we haven’t spent more than a few days apart since London.”

Arthur inhales slowly. “Yeah. That.”

“Come here.” Eames pulls him in a for a long kiss. Eames is a genius at kissing, but this one is different. Softer and sweeter than the exchanges they normally share. The kiss calms him, silences the voices of doubt and indecision that have been screaming inside his mind. By the time they separate, Arthur knows what he wants. He’s made his decision.

He smiles at his lover, pleased to note that Eames looks just as affected by the kiss as he is. “ _Au revoir_.”

“Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Arthur waits at the gate until Eames’s flight has finished boarding. Waits another twenty minutes for the plane to be taxied away and vanish from sight. Then he trashes his boarding pass and leaves the airport.

 

 

 

While Eames has been busy acquiring unregistered weapons and spending small fortunes on artisanal goat cheese—apparently the secret ingredient to his supposedly world-famous salmon quiche—Arthur has been silently doing what he does best. Hunting.

People talk about the job of the point man in terms of business—research, logistics, supplies and services. Clients zoom in on the flashy charisma of the extractors and disregard the points that stand quietly in the background as nothing more than support staff. Fangless sidekicks.

As if.

Dom knew the truth, and that was why he always refused any jobs that wouldn’t keep Arthur at his side. Because in a business trademarked by deceit and exploitation, Dom never knew when he’d need to deploy his best weapon.

Cutting through swaths of information to pick up hidden trails. Chasing quarry down to ground, staying downwind and finding the blindspot that even the sharpest prey leaves unprotected. Focusing the scope on the right target and striking at the perfect moment. These are the things that Arthur excels at.

Digging up the secrets of one Gernot Heinrich lacks any real challenge, and Arthur learns some very interesting things about the man Eames once considered a friend. Maybe even still does, that bleeding heart.

Turns out, Heinrich had gotten up to some Very Bad Things after finally bribing his way out of prison, and it’s likely only dumb luck and bad timing that the Thai police hadn’t taken justice in their own hands by the time Heinrich had beaten tracks back to Europe. The picture Arthur’s research paints shows a man that barely scrapes the barrel of morality on the best of days. It’s also clear that Heinrich is very thorough with those he considers his enemies. Turf squabbles, competitors found in ditches with their faces reduced to pulp… Heinrich works hard and plays rough, with little regard for collateral damage. Arthur knows the type—empire builders. Men with mommy issues that confuse money and fear tactics for business management.

The knowledge that this man exists and bears a grudge against Eames doesn’t sit well with Arthur in the slightest. It is, simply put, unacceptable. Therefore, he will deal with it, as is his way.

He considers what Eames might have to say about his course of action. They’re not pleasant thoughts, so Arthur chooses to deal with that concern by keeping Eames in the dark. The fact that he has now officially lied to the man he's in a relationship with... he deals with  _that_ by pushing the situation past the point of no return. He cancels his visit to the States, citing work as his excuse. Cobb doesn’t argue or even question, as Arthur knew he wouldn’t. Then he checks into a hotel, the Four Seasons—because Eames hates Four Seasons and would rather stay at a youth hostel than step foot in one—and changes into one of his nicer suits.

He has an old friend to meet.

 

 


	3. Poison Devils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for dragging this out... this story is totally giving me performance anxiety.

Arthur is well aware of what his reputation is. For someone like him, his reputation is his business card, diploma, pedigree, and insurance policy all wrapped up into one package, so it pays to know what people are saying. Some of the stories going around are provable fact, some patently ridiculous. Arthur denies nothing, no matter how outrageous, not even the rumor that he once tore a competing extractor’s chin off with his teeth. It’s one of his favorites, actually.

The general thesis of his reputation—that he’s an uptight, ruthless motherfucker that’s particularly good at kicking ass—is true enough. But the rumor mill often forgets one of the most important keys to his success: Arthur knows a lot of people in high places, and even more low places. From top-ranking ambassadors to anarchist hackers, he has a world of connections at his fingertips and he doesn’t shy away from using them.

While he may not have a lot people in his life he considers friends, he knows that most of the people he works with trust him. Trust that he’ll do his job and do it well, whatever it may be. After all, dreamsharing and extraction is only one of the ways in which he earns a living. Need something—or someone—found? Arthur will find it, no matter how well hidden. Negotiating terms between rival gangs or warlords? Arthur is famously impartial. Got a business partner you suspect of embezzlement? Arthur will tell you what dirty secrets they’re hiding. All for a price, sure, but Arthur has also accumulated an endless supply of IOUs that he can call in at any moment, which are often worth more than their weight in gold.

Case in point, he’s found it to be extremely profitable when mobsters owe him favors.

Arthur collects mob contacts like other men acquire ties—they’re some of his favorite clients as their business ethics tend to align nicely with his own code of conduct. Franco Galli is Arthur’s longest-standing connection within the Italian mafia. A stocky man in his fifties, Franco embodies many stereotypes about Italian men… silk shirts, swarthy complexion, and a lazy smile. Arthur is fond of Franco, in his own way, so he digs deep for patience while Franco opens up their meeting with the usual stream of glad-handing.

“ _Buon_ _giorno_ , Arturo.” Franco stands up from the café table to great him with a firm handshake—thankfully not a hug, at least. _“È stato troppo tempo dall'ultima volta che abbiamo visto l'altro, sì? E sembri ancora così giovane. Come_ _stai?_ ”

“ _Bene,”_ Arthur replies, taking a seat and waving off the waiter before the young man makes even two steps towards their table. He doesn’t intend to stay long. “What do you have for me?”

Franco leans back in his chair, stirring his espresso. “Let me tell you, you were right to be looking at this Heinrich fellow. Bad news, _mio amico_.”

“Tell me.”

“ _Lui è un cattivo uomo_ , for sure, and he’s got a major grudge going against _tuo ragazzo_. You know they did time together in Thailand?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Heinrich blames your man for putting him there.”

“I’m aware,” Arthur replies curtly. Franco raises a hand, asking for patience.

“ _Aspetta_ , _aspetta_. There’s more. Heinrich, he has decided your man needs to pay for what was done, _sì?”_ Franco drains the last of his coffee, looking suspiciously like a man bracing for impact. Arthur shifts in his chair. “I just learned Heinrich’s been fishing around, looking to find someone to take him out.”

Arthur draws in a slow breath as anger spikes through his system, throwing the world around him into hyper-focus. The need to get Eames on the phone _right the fuck now_ is like a fist around his heart… but he’s supposed to be on a twelve-hour flight to the States right then, not scheming with mobsters in a crowded neighborhood café. He forces himself in line, letting the sharp edge of rage pin him to the here and now. “Has anyone accepted the hit?”

“None I hear, yet. He a rascal, your Eames, but no one seems too eager to get rid of him. And Heinrich, he not be offering much… _come si dice_ … incentive, cheap bastard. _Tuttavia_ , it will not be long before someone bites the hook.”

Arthur nods slowly. This new development changes things significantly, and he mentally ups the ante on his plans. “I’d like a face to face meeting with Heinrich. Can you arrange that?”

“Eh, easy _._ When you want this?”

“Immediately. Once you have him, I’ll need a day or two.”

“ _Va bene_. I’ll call you, let you know where.”

“Good. And,” he adds with an unholy smile, “no need to be gentle with the transport. Just keep him alive for me.”

To his credit, Franco just nods. He’s used to making deals with dangerous men. “You want us to do anything about the hit order?”

“No, I’ll take care of that myself.”

“ _Bene_ , _bene_.” But Franco makes no move to leave. “Look, Arturo, going to need to renegotiate payment on this.”

Arthur scowls. The last thing he has time for is playing games with the _Mafia veneta._ “Don’t fuck with me, Franco.”

Franco frowns back at him, looking a bit offended. “Nothing like that. _Giuro_. Have you no faith?”

“Franco.”

Franco gives a put-upon sigh but gets to the point, at least. “It’s the boss’s son. Screaming for his place in the organization, you know how they do. And the boss is all for it, except Pino… he’s like a chicken ready to be plucked.” He demonstrates with a peculiar pinching motion of his fingers. “Can’t have weak minds in the business, yes? Even the boss’s son.”

Arthur slouches back, relaxes as he draws the obvious conclusion. “You want me to militarize him.”

Franco nods. “You personally. I assured the boss, there is no one better on this earth for the job.”

“Agreed. But not until after, and I’ll only give him a day.”

“ _Fantastico_.” Franco claps his hands together, happy to have business concluded. “As always, Arturo, it is a pleasure.”

“ _Piacere_ _mio_.” He rises to feet and they shake hands, but as he starts to walk away Franco calls him back.

“Arturo…”

Arthur turns back around. “Yes?” He’s caught off-guard by the hesitant look on Franco’s face and scrambles to think up what loose end he might have missed.

Franco doesn’t help Arthur’s peace of mind when he dithers about whatever is on his mind. “Can I say…”

“What is it?”

“Just that… I am happy for you.” And Arthur might have thought Franco was screwing with him if not for the pensive lines wrinkling Franco’s forehead. “You and this Eames. I am glad for you.”

Which is one of the last things Arthur would have ever expected from his conservative, machismo-raised colleague. He regards Franco with a raised brow. “I thought you didn’t approve of _i finocchi innaturali_.”

Franco flinches at the edge in Arthur’s tone, no doubt recalling some of the blunter conversations they’ve had over the years. He gazes off over Arthur’s shoulder, although Arthur is sure Franco isn’t taking in the scenery judging by his deepening frown. “Meh. As I get older, I think about things. And I think, what is more important than love, yes?” Franco turns his eyes back to Arthur. “Men like you and I… we dare not turn our backs on such things.”

Arthur considers those words for a moment before nodding his head. “Thank you.”

 

 

 

When Franco calls the next morning with the location of a house just over the Italian border, Arthur goes into action.

His first order of business is to go after Heinrich’s assets. Always hit a man where he lives—that’s what he was taught. And men like Gernot Heinrich live in the power they’re able to amass, through money and cunning and sheer brute force. It actually makes them easy targets when you know where to strike, and Arthur hones in like a wolf scenting blood in the air.

The banking systems are simple enough for him to break into, even the more sophisticated accounts held in Hong Kong and Luxembourg. Arthur siphons off the liquid funds and anonymously donates the money to various nonprofits around Europe, ones that specialize is aiding trafficked children. He considers it an appropriate choice.

Heinrich’s physical properties are a little trickier. With Heinrich’s main residences, a couple of high-dollar homes in the city, he transfers the deeds over to two different banks, burying the records so deeply that it will be months if not years before anyone thinks to follow up on them. For the rest of Heinrich’s property, it proves far easier to arrange a bit of arson. A few more favors cashed in, but well worth it in his opinion.

Finally, Arthur turns his attention to Heinrich’s arms trading operation there in Geneva. For that, he takes great satisfaction in calling up some of Heinrich’s more aggressive competitors. A few pointed statements are really all it takes to secure Heinrich’s fate.

It takes the better part of a day, but Heinrich has been reduced to an impoverished pariah by the time Arthur sits down to a late dinner. The man himself, of course, doesn’t know it yet, but Arthur will enjoy bearing him the news.

He’s halfway through his tartiflette when his phone goes off from where he left it on the bedside table—the ringtone a Beethoven piece that inexplicably reminds Arthur of Eames every time he hears it. If he leaps up to answer the phone in an undignified rush, well… no one is around to see it.

_“Miss me, yet?”_

The husky voice instantly makes Arthur want to grin, so he scowls instead. “Who is this?”

_“Want to have phone sex?”_

“Seriously, how did you get this number?”

_“Bought it off a bloke in a petrol station toilet. Cost me ten quid.”_

Arthur bites his lip to keep from smiling. “Well, in that case…” He drops his voice into a low drawl. “What are you wearing?”

_“A skimpy little number. You’d love it. Very… clingy.”_

Arthur drops down onto the frou-frou arm chair by the window, staring at the striped wallpaper but seeing something else entirely. “Tease.”

_“You love it.”_

Arthur wasn’t about to argue with that.

_“How are things at Cobb’s?”_

Arthur looks around his hotel room, at the half-eaten room service meal and the half-used bed. “Quiet.”

_“Shit, I didn’t wake you, did I? What time is it there? You know I’m rubbish at time changes.”_

“Ah, no…” Arthur frantically calculates the time difference in San Francisco. “It’s past noon here. Just, you know, quiet. Everyone’s out.”

_“And left you on your lonesome? That won’t do at all, will it. I’ll have to think up a way to help you pass the time.”_

Arthur lets his body slouch back into the chair, his free hand already inching towards the front of his slacks. “What did you have in mind.”

_“Something… clingy.”_


	4. War Drums

The coordinates Franco provide bring Arthur to a snow-dusted town in the Aosta Valley, a sparsely-populated region in Northern Italy resembling something out of a Julie Andrews movie. Remote and relatively vacant, it’s an ideal setting for torture.

The views are nice, too.

Franco’s employers must be in the habit of keeping unwilling houseguests—the house is a spacious chalet built into the side of a mountain, isolated from neighbors and major roadways. The structure itself is a charming combination of Alpine tradition and modern indulgence, with a number of personalized details for the discerning career criminal. Arthur notes the security and surveillance measures with some ideas for improvement—he likes to tip well for good service, after all.

Franco’s men have Heinrich strapped to a heavy chair in the laundry per Arthur’s instructions, arms and legs bound in such a way as to prevent movement. He approves of the location—industrial tile floors make for easy cleaning. Although the fact that someone bolted the chair to the floor probably reduces the resale value.  

Heinrich has been stripped bare, his naked body splotched with evidence of Franco’s rough handling as well as traces of older cuts and contusions—Eames’s handiwork, Arthur reflects with vicious glee. Judging by the bruising patterns, Heinrich must have put up quite a fight when they took him. Good.

They left him ungagged. Again, Arthur approves. There’s no worry about neighbors hearing what they shouldn’t, and Arthur knows from his own experiences that letting captives scream futilely into an empty room only breaks them down faster.

Heinrich looks up when Arthur enters the room, alone, and snarls. “Just who the fuck are _you_ supposed to be?” The man is battered but far from beaten, which is fine because Arthur is an old hand at making stubborn people bend to his will.

“My name is Arthur. We have a mutual acquaintance,” he states in flat voice, “and I’ve had you brought here to discuss your recent attempts at having that acquaintance killed.”

A renewed fire lights up Heinrich’s eyes as he scoffs. “So this _is_ about that British fuck. Are you here to teach me a lesson?” he sneers. “Show me the error of my ways?”

Bold words, but Arthur can see Heinrich mustering himself up to resist, to withstand what comes next. But what Heinrich doesn’t know is that he’s lost the fight before Arthur even walked through the door. “No. I’m not here to teach you a lesson. You _are_ the lesson.”

Arthur catches the flicker of confusion before Heinrich can fully mask it, and he smiles. Things are proceeding according to schedule. Confusion paves the way for doubt. From doubt, comes fear. And fear is what Arthur is ultimately after.

“Wh—”

“You should know a few things before we begin.” Arthur crouches in front of Heinrich, pulling two objects out of his back pocket—his switchblade and a pair of pliers—laying them in full view at Heinrich’s feet. “First, your life is already over.” He chuckles at the pinched look on Heinrich’s face. “No, I’m not going to kill you. Well, not today. You’ll be more useful alive.” He picks up the knife, flicking the blade out.

Heinrich yanks at his restraints, putting up a good—if pointless—show of bravado. “ _Blödes Arschloch!_ I get free, the first thing I’m going to do is find that _hinterlistiger_ _Schwanzlutscher_ and spit him on a rusty—”

The stream of vitriol sputters to a shocked gurgle as Arthur casually digs the tip of his switchblade into the top of Heinrich’s foot and leans ever so slightly forward, using his body weight to slowly, slowly push the blade in one millimeter at a time. “This isn’t the time for you to speak. This is the time for you to listen. _Hören Sie, Herr Heinrich?_ ”

Heinrich visibly trembles with the effort to hold still, grits his teeth every time his movements tug at the blade lodged in his flesh. He glares Arthur down with every ounce of ferocity he possesses, but his outrage is a mere spark against the blaze of Arthur’s fury.

“You won’t be able to do much of anything when I finally let you go,” Arthur pronounces. “For starters, the money is gone. Every last cent.”

“What are you talking about,” Heinrich bites out.

“Well, I’ve helped myself to your bank accounts. The legal and not-so-legal ones.” Arthur idly taps his fingers along the hilt of the knife, just to see Heinrich twitch. “I’ve drained the accounts attached to every alias you’ve used in the last fifteen years.”

Heinrich shakes his head. “No. There’s no way—”

Arthur just smiles. “There’s always a way, Mr. Heinrich, and my job is to find it. And I assure you, I’m very good at what I do.” He demonstrates by leaning further onto the knife hard enough to elicit a pained gasp. “Your properties are gone, as well. Shame about those fires… I imagine you had a fair bit of cash tucked away in those warehouses. You basically have nothing,” he shrugs, chin held at a taunting angle.

Predictably, Heinrich erupts into a tantrum of screaming expletives aimed at everything from Arthur’s parentage to the color of his tie. Arthur lets the venting go on for a little before losing patience.

With a slam of his fist, the knife punches clear through Heinrich’s foot until the blade tip meets the floor. Heinrich’s shrieks bounce around the utilitarian room like a church bell. He instinctively tries to pull his foot away, which only lodges the knife deeper with a growing spread of blood. Arthur just waits out the racket before continuing.

“You have nothing,” he repeats. “Moreover, I’ve made sure everyone knows that you have nothing. So, no, there won’t be any takers on the hit you tried to put on Eames. All the players know you can’t make good on payment, and no one wants to work for a man who can’t pay his own bills. In fact,” Arthur shifts forward in mock-camaraderie, “you’ll find yourself a bit short on henchmen. Can’t have you rallying the troops to get revenge, after all.”

It takes a clear force of will for Heinrich to speak around his pain and anger. “What have you done,” he pants.

“You’ve apparently made a large number of enemies over the years. Some of those people were all too happy to receive intel on you and your associates. Some of them are on planes headed to Switzerland as we speak.” Arthur watches as the implication sinks in.

“Fucker! You think you can do this to me? _Ich werde deinen Magen herausreißen—”_

Arthur twists the blade, feeling it push against bone, until Heinrich screeches—an inhuman noise that eventually dwindles down into babbling curses.

“ _Du Hurensohn! Fick dich_. And fuck Eames! _Arschmade_. Fucker owes me. I have every right. Just ‘cause he hires you to clean up after him…”

Arthur sighs. “You haven’t been listening closely enough. That’s alright. I’ll explain it to you.” Arthur gets to his feet, leaving his knife in place for the meantime. He grabs Heinrich by the jaw and forces his head back at an unnatural angle. He wants to be certain Heinrich is looking him in the eye for this. “No one hired me, Mister Heinrich. I’m here because I want to be,” he says softly, almost gently. “Because I want to hurt you… very, very badly. I want to watch you bleed. I want to hear you scream. You see, Eames is the love of my life. And you tried to have him killed.” Arthur searches Heinrich’s face and smiles at what he finds there. Still not broken, not yet, but getting there. “I see you’re starting to understand me. Good. Then we can get down to some real business.”

Arthur moves to stand behind Heinrich, out of sight. He closes his eyes and takes a moment, lets the fury within him simmer down to a manageable burn. He doesn’t need rage at the moment—he needs the void that sleeps within him, always just below the surface, that arctic sea of instinct and indifference that washes away doubt. It stirs from down below, creeping up through his consciousness like a daydream, quieting the voice of regret in the back of his mind.

When he opens his eyes, when he returns to stand in front of his prey, he’s not the same man he was a minute ago. He can tell—that Arthur wouldn’t be reaching for the pliers this calmly.

“You weren’t quite correct, before. This, what I’ve done, wasn’t about Eames. It wasn’t even about _you_. It was about _me_ and claiming what’s mine.”

He shushes Heinrich when the other man starts to prattle.

“However… what’s going to happen next… that will be very much about Eames.” Arthur steps in close—closer—until he can see himself reflected in Heinrich’s bloodshot eyes. “Let’s start with the hands, shall we?”

 

  

He works silently for the next three hours, well beyond the point where he feels the need to taunt his victim. He isn’t even angry anymore. Anger is too pure for his current state of mind. So he goes about his task, the motions coming back to him like a once-remembered dance. _One, two, three… turn. One, two, three… turn._ His objective is achieved by the time he’s finished with the first hand—Heinrich is broken, unused to sitting on the other side of cold brutality—but Arthur finishes nonetheless. He doesn’t like to leave jobs undone. A man’s reputation is key, after all.

 

 


	5. Go Back to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little epilogue...

Arthur finds Eames on the beach. It doesn’t require any special skill—he saw the frothy blue water and half-dressed bodies as his plane flew overhead and knew that was where he’d find his man. And, sure enough, Eames sits on a riotously-colored blanket near the water’s edge, gazing out over the sea from behind dark sunglasses.

The afternoon sun catches his hair with a golden glimmer, making Arthur realize how rarely he sees Eames out in the sunlight like this. He wants to etch this moment into his memory, would paint it if he had the slightest talent, because Eames has never looked more beautiful. But… “Could your swimsuit get any skimpier?”

Eames’s head snaps up at his voice, the oddly solemn tilt of his mouth flowing into a devilish smile. “I’m performing a public service, love.”

“Mother Teresa would be proud.”

Eames leans back on his elbows—because he knows precisely what kind of exhibition he’s putting on with that nearly-naked body, the bastard. “You know, I extracted from a nun once. Seduced the poor thing into telling me all her sordid deeds.”

“You’ll definitely burn in hell for that.” Arthur comes to his knees on the edge of the blanket, close enough to smell warm skin and _Eames_ over the salty air.

“Think they’ll let me wear my skimpy suit? Would hate to get tan lines.”

Arthur takes the time to consider the bright blue fabric stretched over Eames’s hips. “No go. I’ll be ripping it off you once I get you alone.”

Eames grins the smuggest grin ever conceived by mankind. “Miss me, then?”

“Very much.” And, because it’s true, he tries to smile back. But the movements feel stiff and alien, like he’s a stranger in his own body. If Eames detects his falseness, Arthur can’t tell with Eames’s eyes hidden behind shades, so he reaches out and plucks the sunglasses from Eames’s face while coming in for a quick kiss.

Well, it’s _supposed_ to be a quick kiss. But the days they’ve been apart feel like weeks, and Eames’s mouth is so warm against his. Arthur lets himself fall into the sensation, lets the touch of lips and teeth and perpetual beard scruff anchor him to reality.

Eames pulls Arthur down to sit next to him, and Arthur can see that his eyes are smiling as much as the rest of his face. Can almost believe that everything will be okay.

“And how’s Cobb?”

“Sane,” Arthur quips, shifting his gaze to the blue horizon. Away from that smile. “Happy to be home.”

“And you? How are you?”

Arthur lifts his face up to the sun, feels its rays heat his cheeks and sear his eyes. Feels the warmth seep into his shoulders. Maybe, if he sits there long enough, the heat will fill that void within him, cauterize it like a wound and make it disappear once and for all. Until then, there’s only one way for him to answer that question. “I’m great. Glad to be here.”

“Excellent,” Eames beams. “Then perhaps you’ll refrain from wandering off again anytime soon.” It’s said in jest, with a jaunty grin and twinkling eyes, but Arthur imagines he can hear a thread of urgency in Eames’s tone.

And he smiles, honestly this time. Because maybe he doesn’t need the sun. Maybe he has something here that will work even better.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

 

_“Are you listening now, Mister Heinrich? No, don’t bother talking. Just listen. Understand that this happened to you for one reason, and one reason only. You tried to fuck with someone I love. And the only reason you’re still alive is to let others know what you were too stupid to figure out. Eames is mine, in every sense of the word. You don’t look for him. You don’t touch him. If you want to hang on to your shitty little life, you’d better crawl into a dark hole and keep your head down. Because I’m watching you now, and I’m not going anywhere.”_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums" by A Perfect Circle.
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


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